


high-water mark

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Atheist Character, Dark, F/F, F/M, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, M/M, Other, Slow Build, Slow Burn, tags to be updated as things move along, to be honest everyone is awful here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7741984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr's working two jobs to keep his wife in medication, and that's fine -- it's fine -- he didn't want that college degree anyway, he didn't need the scholarship Hamilton stole from under his nose, it's all totally fine and he is dealing with everything perfectly well ... until Alexander shows up one night at the <i>bodega</i> where Burr is working and invites him out to a party.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"We used to get along," says Alex. "We used to be friends. You're only saying this to hurt me. Why?"</i><br/><br/><i>Burr shrugs off the attempt at guilt and prying, says: "Did it work?" -- drops his cigarette and grinds it on the patio and looks up at the exact wrong moment, because Alex is frowning at him and all of a sudden he is so goddamn beautiful, so goddamn</i> real <i>again, after all these years of distance and silence that Burr takes a half-step back without meaning to do it.</i><br/><i></i><br/><i>So he says: "I hate you, Alex. That's enough of a reason." And leaves before he can make everything worse.</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. July.

**Author's Note:**

> for Marwa, and all the rest of our lost.
> 
> *
> 
> written in intermittent fits, 8/9/16 - ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex invites Burr to a party, and (astonishing everyone), Burr actually shows up.
> 
> *
> 
>  
> 
> _That old petty heat rises up in Alex. He wants to needle Burr. This is why he stayed up until midnight and later, perfecting debate speeches and studying chess strategy; he wanted to win, sure, he wanted to prove himself to Burr's smooth confidence, but (more than that) he wanted to make Burr see him. Look at me the way you look at a teacher, a textbook, a chess board ..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 8/4/16.
> 
> *
> 
>  _You'll get the message by the time I'm through_  
>  _When I complain about me and you_  
>  _I'm only happy when it rains._  
>  (Garbage)

Theodosia is awake and sitting up. Her eyes are vacant.

Aaron, she says.

He drops a kiss on her forehead (it's too warm) and tucks the blanket around her bare feet (cold to the touch) and settles across from her.

How was your night? Did you take your medicine?

Right on time. Her fingers tap and rub at the silky satin binding of the blanket.

Did you throw up? he says.

Right on cue. How was work?

Burr makes a face. Fine.

Don't lie. You don't need to lie to me. Tell me the story. I'd like a story.

He considers this, considers her, and gives an edited version of the truth: A guy came in that I knew in school -- Alex Hamilton. You never met him, I think. He invited me to a party. ( _A block party_ , he'd said, and scribbled down the address on a paper napkin and slid it across the counter to Burr. _Real low-key. Drop by whenever you get off._ )

Are you going?

No.

You ought to go.

Theo, Burr pleads. Don't make me go. I _hated_ him in school. He was a little punk, a know-it-all, really insufferable. He joined my clubs just to prove he was better than me.

And was he better than you? she says, and laughs at his expression. Let's hope you've both matured since then. Aaron, you need friends. What will you do when I'm dead? Sit and glare at the walls?

Alex Hamilton, Burr says with grim certainty, will never be my friend. 

 

\-- and yet here he is outside the door of a tall rowhouse that's almost quivering with bass reverb; red Solo cups already line up on the porch railing and dot the emaciated patch of lawn. The fetid odor of piss rises from somewhere close by. Burr is shifting his weight from foot to foot, unable to raise his hand and knock on the door.

He knew this was going to be a bad night. He  _knew_ it. From the minute he walked in to work, he knew it. That sense has never been wrong; the more fool Burr, to feel that eye open wide and calm and broadly staring in the center of his chest -- and still ignore it. He shoulda gone home the moment it woke. Called in. Left Eliza alone to deal with the rush of irritable drunks looking to score. But he needs the money. (Theo needs the money.)

He'd expected it to be something small. Robbery, maybe. A gun in his face. The smell of metal. A scared teen in a hoodie. Maybe they'd shoot him, miss the vitals, leave him bleeding on the floor while the ambulance lights flashed: Burr can deal with that. But seeing Hamilton again made his stomach drop down. He wanted to run. 

He wants to run.

_What will you do when I'm dead?_ Theo said.

Here in the humid pulsing darkness, Burr still doesn't have an answer.

Last night she'd cried hard, hard, until her breath caught and she choked -- but she had waited until he was asleep, deliberately shielding him from this. Because she loved him. Because they loved each other.  So Burr kept his eyes closed and pretended hadn't woken. And when she was quiet again he made a soft noise of half-waking and drew her closer, tucking his arm around her chest, feeling the bones in her ribcage spread and contract with her breath coming now even and slow, as she lay awake in the dim formal quiet that pain brings and brings and leaves behind. 

He is helpless against the sea-tide of her suffering and the high-water mark rises all the time. 

But she asked him to let her alone tonight; she'd said _Are you going?_ and _You ought to go._

So he lifts his hand and knocks.

  

*

 

*

  

Alex. _Alex._ Hey. Eyes up, Hamilton! There's some guy outside. Says he knows you.

Not mine, Alex says. He is seven drinks in and the night is warm and he is flirting with a very pretty girl, one Angelica, and somewhere outside waiting for him is John Laurens, and ... and then he realizes who it is (who it _might_ be), and he's getting up, gut in a knot, he's opening the door -- 

Aaron Burr! I didn't think that you would make it!

Burr smiles. To be sure.

Come on in, meet everyone, there's beer in the fridge and good stuff is on the sideboard, help yourself -- 

Thanks, says Burr. He's shrugging off the arm that Alex draped around him, he's resettling his shoulders into a stiff line, looking uncomfortable, looking determined to stay that way.

Alex stares. Does not laugh. Says: I'm glad you're here. (And he is.) Come on with me. Let's go outside. You should meet John.

 

Smoke? says Laurens, offering it up.

No, thanks.

Alex accepts. It's dense in his mouth and he holds unto it a moment before letting it out; the sweet mild deadness rolls in. It slows him down and he relishes the slight lag time, the peace of not needing to fight, the solace of letting go.

I'm glad you're here, he says again to Burr. It's been a long time.

Yeah, says Burr. Then: My wife made me come.

I didn't know you were married.

Burr shrugs.

What's she like?

Burr lights a cigarette. Her name's Theodosia.

Cool, says Alex. (He's staring again. Why is Burr always so  _weird?)_ You should have brought her, he says.

Burr doesn't answer this either. He's got a beer in his hand and he's running his thumb over the pull-tab, not opening it, not doing anything or saying anything.   

Laurens ignores Burr (since Burr so clearly _wants_ to be ignored) and starts talking to Alex instead; he's telling some long story that would undoubtedly make sense if both of them weren't drunk and toasted too -- 

And that old petty heat rises up in Alex. He wants to needle Burr. This is why he stayed up until midnight and later, perfecting debate speeches and studying chess strategy; he wanted to win,  _sure,_ he wanted to prove himself to Burr's smooth confidence, but (more than that) he wanted to make Burr  _see_ him. Look at me the way you look at a teacher, a textbook, a chess board ... But they graduated from school almost ten years ago and he's got nothing to hand, nothing -- except John.

So he leans forward and kisses Laurens, catching him out in the middle of a sentence.

There.

Let Burr see Alex is gay -- let him show his homophobia -- let him get pissed off and throw a punch or throw his drink or -- do whatever he's going to do -- as long as it's  _something_ to get out whatever that goddamned reserve is hiding -- 

Alex? says John, speaking against his mouth; it buzzes and hums and John is smiling, beautiful as the sun rising over skyscrapers. What is with you tonight?

Nothing. Nothing. Alex shifts back; he feels sheepish.

Burr hasn't reacted at all.

John says, amused: Settle down, cowboy. There's time for that later.

and 

Excuse me, says Burr, and leaves.

Alex lights up. Thinks:  _Fucker_.

 


	2. the same night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> same party, same night -- a little later on, and a little later than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I been one poor correspondent_  
>  _I been too too hard to find_  
>  _but it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind._  
>  (America)

* * *

Burr hates parties. He hates pot smoke. He hates talking to people and late nights and summertime and he's pretty sure he hates Alex Hamilton too, because when Alex glances at him and then leans over to kiss John Laurens it's like he's scoring a point against Burr in some petty game of chess -- like he knows why Burr showed up here tonight instead of wandering around the city -- like he knows why Burr is aggravated and restless and not drinking the beer that's slowly warming to the elevated temperature of his own skin, his hand around the sweating can.

Burr doesn't look away when Alex kisses John. The patio is in semi-darkness, Alex won't see the blood rising to his face, Alex won't see a goddamn _thing_

\-- but when he pulls away and Laurens says something about how they'll finish up _later,_ Alex smiles -- at Burr.

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Burr goes back into the apartment.

 

 

And there, wouldn't you know it, is Angelica Schuyler. He hasn't seen her in years and she looks different -- harder around the eyes, for one, and she's grown out from a rawboned teenager with the faint promise of good looks into someone really striking; even her bearing speaks to the human she's always been growing towards. 

She's leaning forward now, talking in a low voice to a skinny guy with a tall pouf of hair and another one who looks like a linebacker, all shoulders and focus. "Yeah, but _I_ heard --"

They stop when Burr comes in.

He nods at them and got another beer out of the fridge and opens it slowly.

The big man rolls his eyes marginally -- Pardon -- and edges out.

Burr watches the two of them -- Angelica and the skinny guy. He knows this man. He's heard about him. And it doesn't surprise him, not really, that Angelica is tied up in this.

He waits.

They watch him.

Am I interrupting? Burr says.

Angel, you know this dickhead?

I do, unfortunately, she says; her eyes are calmly discerning, emphasized by her hijab. Jefferson, meet Burr. Aaron knows perfectly well that he's not wanted here; therefore he wants something from us.

Is that so. What is it that you want -- Aaron?

You're a good person to get things, I've heard.

Jefferson smiles; it is not a friendly expression. This is not helping your case, Aaron.

Burr ignores this. Ange. Did Eliza tell you about Theodosia? She -- Theo -- she's out of her medication. Totally out. Soon. 

His wife, says Angelica to Jefferson, who looks ready to fire off some more antagonistic bullshit. Thom, calm down. Burr's being a dick, but he's not stupid and he doesn't talk. And his wife is dying. -- Doctors fucking you over?

Constantly.

Know what you need?

There's a list, Burr says, soft.

Can you afford it?

Name your price, says Burr, thinking that he can pick up more hours at the hospital, maybe, somehow. Or another few shifts at the store. He'll just stop sleeping. It's fine. It will be fine.

Jefferson laughs out aloud. You _sure_ he's not stupid?

He's desperate, Thom.

Yeah? And when did you get a stiffy for the softies, Angel?

Can you do it? she says to Jefferson.

I'm sure you and I could talk about it, he says, with a smile in his voice that doesn't make it up to his face.

Angelica almost flinches.

Burr can't bear this. He says Let me know.

 

Outside on the patio again he tries to smoke but his hands are shaking too badly to steady the lighter. He's bent over it on the third try when someone slides open the door and steps out backwards, still talking.

Burr jumps, dry cigarette in hand, swearing and holding out a hand to protect himself from human contact.

So they stare at each other -- Burr with his hand stretched out, frozen -- Hamilton looking up.

Burr is taken back by this proximity, their mutual silence, by his own heart beating fast and in his throat. 

It's a long second before he can collect himself and by then Hamilton is patting and fumbling and finding a matchbook and striking one and holding it out, holding it taut, away from his center.

Burr isn't quite mad enough, yet, to be let it burn down his fingers. So he sets the cigarette back between his lips and brings his own fingers to curve around Alex's, so lightly and so carefully, their skin barely touches -- 

As soon as it's possible he lets go and tilts back his head to blow out a puff of smoke; he gives Hamilton his best vague blankness. Says: Thanks.

Hamilton is biting his lip. Yeah. No problem.

Burr thinks: Sure. That's why Alex looks like agitated and angry, an alleycat ready to fight. Cause it's all no problem.

Alex says: Angie Schuyler is here.

Yeah. I saw her. Burr takes a drag. We had a nice chat.

She's changed a lot.

I didn't think so. But Burr considers. Allows: Maybe. Did you know, I work with her sister.

Eliza?

Yeah.

She always was a sweetheart, says Alex; he's relaxing a bit. We still keep in touch.

Didn't you two date? says Burr.

Not much. For like a week. He smiles. That was before I ... before I met John.

Ah. So is _John_ the one who introduced you to ... Burr makes an insolently vulgar gesture and flicks his smoke in the silence; he enjoys this new point in his tally-board.

Alex is livid. Why are you acting like this? Why are you saying things just to piss me off?

Burr doesn't bother to remind him the bad behavior is mutual. He takes another drag and lets it go in silence.

Why the fuck are you even here? -- And Hamilton seems really to expect an answer.

My wife told me to come. (How pathetic Burr sounds. How pathetic he feels.)

Your _wife_. Theo-whatever.

Theo _dosia._ Yes.

Do you always do what she says because she says it? That doesn't sound like you.

Fuck off, Alex! You know I don't like you. I never have.

You're such a liar. We used to get along. We used to be  _friends._ You're only saying this to hurt me. Why?

Burr shrugs off the attempt at guilt and prying, says: Did it work? -- he drops his cigarette and grinds it on the patio and looks up at the exact wrong moment, because Alex is frowning at him and all of a sudden he is so goddamn beautiful, so goddamn  _real_  again after all these years of distance and silence that Burr takes a half-step back without meaning to do it.

So he says: I hate you, Alex. That's enough of a reason.

\-- and gets out quick before he can make things even worse.

Once out the door he barely makes it to the curb before the half-of-a-beer he had comes back up, all over the pavement. He crouches there for a minute, dry-heaving and cursing himself.

Theo is right: he hasn't grown up at all.

 

*

 

*

 

Burr didn't stay long, says Angelica.

Alex shakes _no_ , thinking: He was here plenty long enough to fuck with my head.

He says: I didn't know you two knew each other.

She's looking straight ahead, scuffing her feet lightly on the floor. We used to date. Briefly.

Alex tries to imagine Burr  _dating._ Fails. Says: He left so fast.

He's married, Alex. And his wife is dying.

... he didn't tell me that.

Why should he? Why would he? Leave him alone about it. I'm telling you so you don't say anything. 

We used to be friends, says Hamilton, speaking to himself.

Don't hassle him about it. Let him be with his pain unless you've got something to do that will actually _help_.

She's stern and resolute and certain and he is reminded all over again that Angelica and Eliza are sisters; even if one was cut on the bias and one along the grain, they are from a single piece of cloth.

But she bites her lip a moment. Kisses him on the cheek. He's startled, wide-eyed.

You're cute, Hamilton. Try to keep yourself out of trouble, will you?

I never get in trouble, he says, impossibly pious, still thinking about Burr.

She snorts. Remember what I said.


	3. August.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written early August, 2016.
> 
>  _Haven't I paid my dues by now? Haven't I paid my dues by now? Haven't I paid my dues by now?_  
>  _And don't I get the right to choose?_  
>  (The Nields)

It's his long day -- six hours at the bodega, evening shift at the hospital. Burr takes the train out of the city and a bus home to the apartment and gets there only a little over an hour after he clocks out. Hand on the doorknob, key in the lock, he pauses. Someone is talking inside.

Several someones.

But the air feels quiet and their voices are calm, so --

And it's Eliza smiles up at him, from the couch.

Hey.

Hello, says Burr, staring. Um. You're here.

I stopped by with some muffins, she says, looking a little self-conscious; her cheeks bloom and for a moment the colors of her face match her headscarf, all brown and pink and the soft white of her eyes, all vibrance. I wanted to say hello -- I didn't realize you were at the other job tonight -- and your wife let me inside, and then --

She's very funny, says Theo.

Well, he says back to her.

And he goes into the bathroom to change.

 

When he comes out, after a shower and a small argument with himself, Theo is asleep -- curled with her head on Eliza's lap -- and Eliza is looking down at her with a pure softness, it radiates through her face and her body, and Burr feels like he has stumbled unto something elemental, too precious to touch.

He retreats. Makes noise. Comes back into the living room, pretending it is the first time. Theo?

Oh. She fell asleep. I didn't want to bother her, to wake her.

It's all right. He considers her -- both of them. I need to sleep, myself.

Oh, -- oh, I'll --

Burr says No, you can stay if you want. I'm not trying to kick you out. And he finds himself smiling at her -- at this woman who, in one night, one meeting, became so dear to his wife that she shut her eyes and took rest on her body.

Are you sure?

Make yourself at home. And -- and thank you, he says, awkward. For the muffins.

Anytime, says Eliza, but she's looking at Theo again.

 

When he wakes up she is gone and Theo is in bed with him and the blanket is neatly folded on the sofa and there is a note, tacked to the fridge with the magnet they bought from a junk-store, a wedding gift to themselves:

 _Alex says hello and_  
_to text him please_

and his number, neatly written in her rounded hand.

 

Burr does not obey. He sleeps and he wakes and he goes to work to home to sleep to wake again.

He watches Theo.

Some days are better; some days are worse; she sinks down into the bad days like settling into a bath, letting herself be used to the heat of the water, letting herself be burnt.

 

And Alex comes to the _bodega_.

They're late-afternoon-school-just-let-out busy, and Burr is doing three things at once -- he likes this, he likes losing himself, likes the blankness of hard work.

But there is Hamilton, smiling a little, and the careful walls he's built up around that party last month don't seem so thick and sturdy, anymore.

Um.

Hey, I see you working. I just stopped by to drop this off. He slides a brown-paper bag over the counter at Burr. Jefferson said you left it? I didn't know you two even knew each other.

He's afraid to touch the lunch-bag, like maybe it has a live copperhead or a swarm of spiders. Knowing Jefferson, it might.

Or maybe that comes later, when he can't pay up.

Thanks.

Sure. He smiles that well-known graceful smile and Burr's heart, oh his heart! -- but Alex is looking at Eliza. Hey, sweetheart.

She dimples. Hey.

Burr does not roll his eyes. He clenches the bag -- it's surprisingly heavy. I was wondering if you'd want to come over tonight. Both of you, he adds, to Hamilton's startled eyes. Just drinks and company.

I'd like that.

I'll ask Angie, says Eliza, in delight, and Burr can hardly say _No_ to her, can he?

 

Once at home he says Hello to Theodosia and warns her (asks her) about the company; she brightens.

Eliza too? she says, and yes, Burr invited Eliza, of course.

As soon as he can he disappears into the kitchen and sets the paper bag on the counter. Its innocence is a threat. He opens it with shaking hands, glimpses inside, sees a bunch of plastic bags and pills, and covers his face. He's trembling all over. He wants to vomit. He wants to weep.

\-- and the door opens and there's the lower voice of Alex mixed with Eliza's midrange tones, and he's got to calm down, he's got to do it, so he does --

 

Everyone is here and it's not so bad as Burr expected, or maybe that's the relief running through his veins, a heady gladness. They open the wine Alex brought and then the one Eliza took in (apologizing for her sister's absence, saying Maybe this can compensate a little?) and then Burr scrounges another from the cabinet and Eliza, giggling, walks with Alex to the store for a fourth.

Burr takes Theo's measure. Are you feeling all right?

Very well.

He sits down and pulls her in and he wants to kiss her so badly but she wouldn't like it so he just puts his head in her neck and says: _Theo_.

Aaron, she says. Sweet boy.

 

and they open another bottle and one more and Burr lets the joy slide over him, lets the night and the conversation become its own sort of tide.

 

He isn't blind to how Theodosia's eyes follow Eliza; he sees how she smiles at her, how she turns to her like a sunflower turning towards light when she moves across the room. He can't tell if Eliza notices -- she is gentle and kind to Theo, but she is gentle and kind towards almost everyone. Maybe there is a little more kindness in her bearing here -- but again (he argues himself down) anyone who could be unkind to Theo is a monster --

Hamilton sees it and for a mercy and a wonder, he holds his tongue.

They sit together in a corner, windows open to the night air, talking and laughing and drinking an indeterminate amount of red wine.

Eliza is definitely drunk; she is red-cheeked and giggling and keeps touching people -- nothing inappropriate, just reaching out and touching -- she touches Hamilton on his knee twice and she touches Burr's shoulder and when he pulls back a little she smiles at him with a surprising directness; he understands, briefly, why Theo is taken with her. This is a new side, this is nothing passive and accepting, nothing like she is at work. He sees Angelica here in her.

Hamilton has drank a bottle by himself and seems, if anything, even less mellow than usual. He keeps jittering his legs and scribbling things in a notebook, and there's something in the way he bends over the book -- his hair falls in his face and his hands move furiously over the page and his spine curves just so -- and his eyes, when he looks up to see Burr staring at him, are radiant. He is embarrassed at being caught -- or maybe it is the wine bringing out that flush over his cheekbones. He pushes up his shirt-sleeves to the elbows and sits back on the heels of his hands, smiling at Burr in a way that brings an answering warmth in Burr -- and he looks away, towards Eliza, giggling into Theo's shoulder as she showed her something on her phone. Theo has her mouth pressed into Eliza's hair and her eyes were shut and she was smiling, and Burr aches at it; there's a familiar tension in his belly that he does not want to associate with Alexander _fucking_ Hamilton -- and even as he finds himself noticing it, being annoyed and amused by his own reaction, he is surprised and relieved, too. Working several jobs and coming home to tend the house and Theo has, after months and months of it, deadened his response to the point where he wondered if he was operating under some low-grade depression. It is reassuring in a way to find that he could still have any physical reaction to physical attraction.

Still: why the hell did it have to be _Hamilton?_

 

Is everyone more open tonight? is it the wine? Or --

 

Theo goes to bed soon enough and Eliza goes to tuck her in and neither comes out, and after the conversation with Hamilton stutters and slows and turns strange, Burr gets up to check on them --

There is his wife, worn-out and asleep on her side, lips parted; and there is Elizabeth, curled around her, her headwrap twisted; she lays over the covers while Theo is underneath but there is a peaceful intimacy, a flowing between them, all at odds with his own bitter worked-up inner jangling and churning, and his heart, oh his _heart_ \--

He shuts the door quietly. Goes to the kitchen. Alex is there, putting his glass into the sink, running a little water. How is Theo?

She's resting. Sleeping.

How long has she been sick?

Bur shrugs, doesn't answer.

And they can't do anything?

Alex. She's Black. And a woman.

But --

Burr shuts his eyes. You know how this goes. She had some pain and bleeding -- that was, Jesus, that was back in college, right when I met her. The clinic said it was nothing. She didn't have insurance, what was she supposed to do? By the time things got bad enough to, he stammers, to show up in a manual exam, it was too late. His voice is clipped. She dropped out. We got married -- she needed someone to be there for tests, and for insurance, it's so much cheaper. So we went to the courthouse. And then I dropped out of school, I had to, to work enough, to pay for -- for things. It's not like either one of us had family.

Your uncle --

You know he never liked me. So. He swallows, clears his throat. It's a matter of time.

You love her, Alex says. It sounds like he's swallowed sand.

We were always friends, Burr says, absently.

Friends, says Alex. What do you mean?

F-r-i-e-n-d-s, Hamilton, and if you look at me with that precious sympathy on your face for one more second I will wipe it off, do you understand? We do what we have to do. That's all. Anyway, she's asexual.

But you're not.

No, says Burr, grim.

How does that work, then? What about sex? Do you have sex?

Not with Theo.

But --

Hamilton. Do I ask about your love life with John Laurens?

You could. I'd tell you. Alex grins.

It's none of my business. It's none of _your_ business.

Sorry. Okay. You're right. I was only going to say --

It's really, really not up for discussion.

Okay, says Alex again, in that small voice.

Silence. Silence. The refrigerator kicks on, humming to itself; the florescent light flickers greenly, casting shadows.

I missed you, says Alex at last.

Burr doesn't reply.

Why did we stop being friends? When?

Probably when -- Burr bites his tongue. _When you decided your only goal in life was to win. To beat me in every single important contest. And to rub it in my face that people liked you better. That I would never be anything but a failure, no matter what I did or how hard I worked._

Alex says: Because I kissed you?

It has nothing to do with that, says Burr, before he realizes that he should have brushed it off and acted like he doesn't even know what Hamilton refers to, like that night was something so insignificant it wasn't even worth space in his memory.

But Alex is not a ditz, no matter how long he grows his hair and how dark his eyelashes are and how carefully he dresses, now, like the pits of fashion. He hears Burr make a mistake. He hears everything -- and he smiles, and it is beautiful beyond beauty, and Burr wants to die.

So he says, cruel, because he is hurting and he wants Alex to hurt and he wants to be the one to do it: You deliberately inserted yourself into every corner of my life -- everything I was good at -- just to show off. Just to prove that you could do it better than me. And you're doing it even now, don't you see that?

All _I_ see is that you're holding a grudge from something that happened in high school ... I knew you were a pain but I never thought you were _petty_.

Petty. You think _I_ am the one being petty.

You know why I got into the things you were into? I had a crush on you. I wanted to make you notice me. You were so damn smart and so damn aloof and you were always better than me and I hated it --

You won every single award we were up for, Alex. Don't start with that shit.

Popularity contests says Alex, brushing away years of effort and study and late nights with a wave of his hand. You got the grades, didn't you? You were _better_ than me. And I had a thing for you, and don't think that I missed how you ignored that. He laughs, bitter: You're still ignoring me.

Is this the part where you confess you're still into me? Even though I'm married, and you're with Laurens.

You are being deliberately obnoxious, says Alex.

Burr, who is indeed seeking to aggravate, looks away. I'm going in to bed.

No. Don't leave yet. It's barely past midnight.

I ought to. I need to be at work at seven.

I don't want you to, says Alex; he moves a little closer without meaning to. Look. Every time you look at me, it's like I'm something you scraped off the bottom of your shoe. Why? Because you're embarrassed that I saw you working that shit job? Do you really think I care what you do for money? Go hook on the street-corner for all that I care. But talk with me, Aaron.

He looks very small and young and almost fragile and it does something to Burr's chest, the space within his ribcage seems too tight all of a sudden. Alex, Alex, is it always Alex? He's seen his smile flash a hundred times -- more than that -- every time, when he bested Burr. They were evenly matched when the competition was fair and Burr reveled in getting the higher grades on written tests, on winning chess tournaments, on running track that few seconds faster than short-limbed Alex -- but how often was life fair?

Alex had gotten what Burr wanted over and over and it never even seem to matter to him.

The old enmity rises; he'd like to punch him. Wipe that grin off his face. Push him down, he thinks -- push him against the wall, and --

He bites his lip. Says Your mouth certainly hasn't slowed down any.

I missed you, Alex says again. I have. And I know it's -- gauche, and unmanly, to talk about this sort of thing, but we never stood on ceremony before, did we? I can't do that with you. You always brought out the worst in me, and I liked it.

 _I liked it_ , he'd said, and _You bring out the worst in me_. It's true on both sides. Hamilton makes him want to do everything at once, and loudly. _Fuck. Fuck_. Burr shuts his eyes.

He leans in, gives in, recklessly kisses that reckless mouth. Lets go. Steps back. Wipes his mouth (Alex winces) and covers his face and swears out loud.

Alex is holding on to his shirt. I didn't know you like boys.

I don't.

Alex grins. Just me, then.

Not even you, says Burr, to cover up the quick dense pain in his chest at that smile: _Yes, you -- you particularly, you most especially of all. You._

That goddamn Hamilton is completely unabashed, completely disbelieving -- and he slides down the wall and kicks lightly at Burr until he sits too, relaxing, and then they're talking to each other again.

I missed you, Burr thinks, does not say, to the mobile face nearby, watching Alex ramble on about something -- gesturing, amiable, human and imperfect and perfectly loved.

  
 

*

 

*

 

  
Burr shuts his eyes and makes a terrible face and Alex flinches -- he can't bear any more of this _trying_ and he is going to go straight home and sleep it off -- and then Burr, for once, catches him off-guard. He leans forward and tilts up Alex's chin and kisses him hard enough to hurt, hard enough that Alex loses his breath and can only kiss back, selfish, not caring right now about wifes and boyfriends and whatever is or is not happening between himself and Angelica, and it feels like the pressure of water on his mouth, like rain falling, like he's drowning, and then the pressure changes and light flashes through him and Alex gasps and says Aaron and Burr moves away.

But his mouth was warm and dry and swollen from where he's been chewing down on it, and it makes Alex angry, thinking _I should be the one chewing on that mouth, it should be from me--_

Burr pushes him away. I don't even like you.

\-- like Alex won't notice the sweet pinkness in his cheeks, the sleepy peace in his eyes. Yeah. Right. He wants to call him out on this. He does not. That old, beautiful feeling rises in him again -- competition, yes, he wants to win, yes, he wants to take down Aaron and make him admit that Alex is a real competitor, he wants to --

He says: Yeah. You really hate me. I can see that.

He relaxes his hand, steps back until he hits the wall -- thank god for the wall -- and slides down and kicks at Aaron until he laughs and sits, too, and now they are talking again and it is, in its way, even better.

 

John Laurens is in the apartment when Hamilton comes in, and it's not exactly the conversation he wanted to have -- he wants to carry around this night in his pocket for a little while, to run his fingers over it in secret, to think about it without feeling anything more than the faint tinge of shame, desire, heat. The pressure of a new mouth. Aaron.

He doesn't want to include John's eyes.

But John is here and it might as well be now.

He sits him down and explains what happened, quick and dry. Tries not to shift in his seat or look guilty (he feels guilty).

John is not pleased. You hate it when I so much as dance with other men, and you want me to be okay with you grinding up on whatever his name is, Aaron?

Alex winces. It wasn't like that.

What was it like?

He just -- he kissed me. That's all. John is still staring and Alex tries not to look away. Admission of guilt. He kissed me a little. I kissed back a little. It wasn't anything much.

It wouldn't be _much_ if you had told me beforehand. Isn't that what we agreed on? Talk it out before anything happens? It wouldn't be much if you hadn't lied to me --

I didn't lie. John. _He_ kissed _me_. Why don't you believe me?

I do believe you ... You are beautiful (a gentle kiss) and clever (another kiss) and completely dear (a longer one, lingering) and you have the emotional intelligence of a walnut. What did this Aaron do when he finished kissing you?

He swore a lot, says Alex, not happy to admit this.

John laughs so hard that he falls over and sits on the floor, gasping for breath. He says: I'm starting to like him.

Alex snuggles in. Do you like him more than me?

Way more, says John Laurens, and tugs at the ends of his hair until Alex gives in and shuts his eyes and smiles.


	4. September.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Go on and hold her till the screaming is done_  
>  _Go on, believe her when she tells you nothing's wrong_  
>  _But I'm the only one ..._  
>  (Melissa Etheridge)

* * *

Eliza likes her doctor, she says, and she argues the receptionist into granting a rush intake appointment for Theo, and offers to take her.

The company means Burr doesn't have to take time off work -- but when he brings it up Theodosia looks at him with naked fear and he drops the suggestion.

She drops by early, waits for them to get ready, and then Oh, here. I stopped by the market yesterday, right before I went to masjid to -- to pray for you, dear. And I saw this -- and --

She digs out a brown-paper-wrapped package and for a moment Burr is caught up in a memory of a bag in Alex's hands, how his skin is almost the same color as the paper, how he slid it over the counter and smiled and didn't know, didn't know how he was being used -- No. _No_. Listen to Eliza. 

She is speaking, earnest and open, apologizing for her own generosity: It isn't much. But I thought of you. And I know you're not very religious, Theo, darling, but I thought -- 

I will always, says Theo, in a voice that isn't quite shaking, I will always accept your prayers. It's a difference of definitions, you know; it's not a difference of reality. She swallows. You don't know what this means to me.

And they touch each other in a half-embrace, and Eliza tugs playfully at one of Theo's long thin braids and smiles, and Theo looks at Burr and tries to smile at him through her emotions. Isn't it beautiful? she says. Aaron, come see.

He was hanging back, not wanting to interrupt, but so invited he comes forward. It is beautiful, he says, truthfully. Eliza. Thank you. And thank you for going with us. Nobody else ever, um, ever wanted to. He wants to say more and he cannot.

You're more than welcome, says Eliza: but she's looking at his wife.

 

 

So they wait in the waiting room together, a strange family of three. Eliza is looking particularly striking, coordinated from scarf to shoes, and he can't help but feel this is done in some odd way for Theo's benefit: looking good as a barrier against the world.

She gets up and wanders over to the fish-tank, not upsetting the fish by touching the glass or moving around, just standing in one spot and watching in joy.

Look, says Theo in a whisper to Burr. You can tell this is in a nice neighborhood.

He snorts. Don't be intimidated by the perky ponytails; they're only  _bourgeoisie_.

Her eyes are wide, vacant, deeply dark. She's terrified. She says: You know the Planned Parenthood down on North Avenue? I used to go there. They have notices everywhere about child abuse. Here, you know ...

She shrugs.

White folks beat their kids too, says Burr, not bothering to modulate his voice this time.

 _We_ know that, but _they_ don't know that.

And we can never let them in on the secret or society would crumble. I know. I know. Are you all right? Are you sure you don't want me back there with you? Or Eliza?

It's okay.

He puts both his hands around hers; he rubs her thumb with his. I'll come in if you want me to, T.

It's okay, she says, mostly to herself. Aaron. Do you regret it? Marrying me. Doing all this. For me. 

Don't.

I can't give you anything back, she says, still staring at the poster of a white baby held by a white pair of hands. Blue eyes and yellow curls and a rounded mouth, open in laughter or greed. Burr never wanted all that anyway. But what does it represent to her?

You give me plenty. More than enough. He swallows. When we were in school, when I was getting free -- how many nights did you stay awake with me? How many times did you talk me down? This isn't anything. This is a little bit of -- 

He stumbles over the words.

She says them calmly, and aloud: It's a little bit of patience. You're waiting for me to die.

A dozen pale-hued eyes turn to her, look away.

They're each holding still, not touching, though they sit next to each other in the waiting-room chairs.

The chairs are comfortable. Padded. Definitely a nice area.

Eliza comes back and sits down, taking Theo's hand automatically, stroking it.

A nurse comes out: Thay-oh-doe-say-ah? Um. Mrs Burr?

That would be me says Theo; she detaches herself from Eliza and touches her necklace like it's another hand to hold, another talisman, and he wants to break for all the things he can't give her but she says loud and fierce, like it's the final word on the topic and she's daring him to argue: If there are other lives, I'm going to come back for you, Aaron. I'm going to pay you back for this.

And she goes back with the nurse, into the office, leaving them alone.  
   
Burr stares at his shoes. If there's a real day of reckoning and a real god to balance the scales, they'll decide who deserves to be paid, and how much of it. Not him. Not her. How could any human measure their own suffering fairly, much less anyone else's?

He longs to ask Eliza what her religion says about this but it would hurt her more and already she is crying quietly, holding a hand over her mouth.

I'm sorry, he says to her, low. Thank you for coming with us. Truly.

A watery smile. She's so brave.

No better options, says Burr.

 

 

Eliza goes on home alone; the Burrs take a bus back to the apartment. Theo is still crying by the time it rattles up. He pays the driver and finds her a seat ("for elderly, disabled, or pregnant women only") and stands over her protectively, holding on to the bar; when the seats clear enough he sits down next to her and gathers her against him and lets her breathing steady and her nose run against his good winter coat. He presses the tag for their stop and takes her hand again and unlocks the door and leads her inside and runs a bath and undresses her a little, too, because she is still quiet, still unresponsive; when she starts to take off her own clothes and bent over to dip her fingers hesitantly in the bathwater, he leaves her alone long enough to fill a glass with cold water and find the pills he keeps stashed safely away.

He shakes out two -- thinks better of it -- and drops one back in the little orange tube. Brings it to her.

Here.

Theodosia sits up a little in the bathwater. She's added bubbles, an unsettling amount really, and they cover her up to her chin, layers of fluff coating her skin. Says: I shouldn't. I should save them.

You can't always be on the lookout for worse days, you know. Sometimes, today is the bad day.

Thank you. Aaron? Thank you.

What else are husbands for? he says: and is repaid with a flicker of a smile.

 

 

Alex? Alex, open the door. He rests his head against the wood. Alex, Alex ...

It opens -- he nearly falls forward -- and then Alex is bracing him up, hands on his shoulders and chest, and he's laughing, saying Burr what is -- and the sound collapses inward: Oh. Oh. You're drunk.

And Burr hates himself for the way that voice hits rock, turns brittle.

Why are you here?

I wanted company. I wanted to see you. (It's true. He was drinking, trying to find the bottom of the bottle, trying to ignore everything he wanted and couldn't have, and then -- he'd thought --)

Ah. Well. And Alex leads him inside, to his bedroom, pushing him gently on to the bed, putting a hand to his forehead. Let me get you some water.

No. I don't need -- Alex?

Shh. I'm right here.

A cold glass in his hands. He drinks, fumbling. I don't want you to leave.

I'm not leaving. Thumbs on his cheeks. What did you have?

Vodka -- whiskey -- something. A few things. I finished a few things.

You're going to regret that in the morning. He sounds amused. He sounds strained. Is someone with Theodosia?

Liza. We went -- there was a doctor appointment. Today. Yeshterday. Didn't go well. Fucksticks. Alex?

I'm just taking off your shoes. Lie down, now. And someone is pulling a blanket over him. Alex, he thinks. No, he has to tell him out loud or he won't hear. I don't need -- I wanted to see you. I wanted to be here. You, he explained, more clearly.

I know.

The hand is against his face again and it is so nice. Burr sighs. You don't understand.

I do.

Theo is so sick, he says, and burst into tears.

Alex draws him in against his chest, saying soft kind meaningless things, and Burr weeps.

You love her, says Alex finally.

She used to be -- before it got bad. Cleverest woman I've ever met. Cleverest _person_. Smarter than me, smarter than you. And beautiful, Alex. But we never. You know? She doesn't want me. Doesn't want anyone. So it's not personal. I wish. I wish I could help her more. She's in so muh pain and it hurts her, emotionally, grinds her down. She's not herself. She's this pale version. Like she's the bones of herself. A skin-and-bone human. Those pills Jefferson gets are helping but he doesn't get the same kind every time and anyway it's just palliative care. And she wants to die. Alex, she wants to die and it kills me.  
 

 

*  
 

*  
 

 

Alex sits, cold. He is holding Aaron Burr and they are wrapped together in a blanket and he is so goddamn cold.

Those pills Jefferson gets. The ones that Alex delivered, of course. He was a fucking _drug mule_. He could have gone to prison for life.

Aaron is talking to him, talking to himself really, going in and on like the words had only been held back in him, and Alex isn't paying attention to any of it until Burr shifts up and touches his face and kisses him on the mouth.

He immediately re-assesses the power of his own imagination; it had not been equal to this. The other night was nothing like this. He was sweet and warm and intriguing, but this? Jesus. Burr is biting his lip a little, moving so slow  -- reduced reaction time is a side effect of alcohol, Alex thinks -- and so are impaired decision-making skills.

Alex lets the kissing go on for a moment longer before he pulls away. You can't, Aaron. You need to sober up.

No. I was thinking about you, I wanted to -- do you remember that other night? I wanted that. Again.

Oh, he remembers very well. He's remembered it several times since. But. However. No, he says, and kisses that mouth a few more times. Go to sleep, Aaron.

Go to sleep, Alex, murmurs the form.  
   
It should be easy to ignore the man in his bed. He's already made the decision to let Burr alone; he's made the decision to be fair-minded; there isn't anything left but to let him sleep.

It is not easy. Alex finds himself getting up again and again, making excuses to himself, wandering over to look at him. Shove hands in his pockets. He's chosen to do the right thing, so why is it so damned hard?

He doesn't want Burr like this, he thinks, trying to convince himself because Oh but he does, he dies!

But Burr doesn't want him, not really, and so --

 _I'll still want you tomorrow,_ Burr had said.

If only that were true.

Alex settles into a chair with a book in his hands and earbuds in his ears.

It doesn't help.


	5. October.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Listen closely, May_  
>  _This phone may not be safe._  
>  (Richard Shindell.)

Burr waits for Theo to asleep (reaching an almost-solid depth) and then searches the internet.  _Felony time for drug charges._ And _jail time prescription meds._ Results are inconclusive. At the very least, he would be fired.

How many pills can he take before they notice? How many would be enough to get her through the end? Whenever that will be. _Dear god_  he thinks to the unknown god Theodosia half-believes in, to the god of sharp-eyed mercy Eliza believes: _Please don't let her suffer any more. Please let her die. Please let it be quick._

 

So he goes to work that night at the hospital and maybe his fingers linger a little too long on the metal cabinet as he passes and maybe his footsteps drag  _What if what if what if._

But there are other _what if_ s, too. And her weight is around his neck like a millstone. He rubs the back of his head -- feeling that invisible pressure -- all the doubt and shame and fear of the possibilities before them. Before her. 

 _I love you_ , she'd said.

I love you, he thinks back to her, wishing and wishing and wishing.

At break he unlocks his phone and finds -- not the expected message from Theo, checking in for the night -- but an unknown.

 

_stay home tonite_

 

He stares at the words but nothing more: it remains quiet, implicitly threatening. 

What the _fuck_.

 

 

*

 

*

 

 

Meanwhile:

Alex and Laurens are on a date. It's a good night. They've gotten tall milkshakes, so thick the straw stands straight up in the middle (Alex makes the predictable pun and John kisses him, tasting of hamburger, saying "Later, you greedy boy") -- and they argue about politics and now Alex is sleepy and silly, full of food and laughter, and he curls up on the passenger-side while a bare-foot John drives.

The radio is down low. College station. Alex keeps it as a pre-set because John likes that one, how the music is always different, not always recognizable or even particularly good; he likes hearing the college kids learn to spin and balance; he likes listening to them rattle on about the music that moves them. "Reminds me of you a bit," Laurens had said once, glancing over at Alex with a certain shyness he seldom wore. 

Alex hadn't been able to reply, then.

Now he tucks his feet up on the seat and snuggles down lower, says Turn it up a bit, will you?

Yeah, I just -- sorry, just a minute. I don't know what this guy ahead of us is -- Jesus _fuck!_

And John slams on the brakes

and Alex sits up

just as a car pulls up beside them and the window next to John's head disappears in a rain of glass and noise and John makes a horrible, choking sound, terrifyingly familiar somehow and because he is reaching out and there is blood all over his hands and cars squealing tires and he hadn't thought to get the plate number and the blood, the blood is everywhere, John is thrashing and choking and John is _dying_ , he is dying right there and now while Alex presses his hands against his ruined chest and tries to push the blood back in and tries to keep in it and tries to keep it in, and cannot

and John is choking, he is saying something but he is only whistling out air

and Alex is whole, he is perfectly whole, but he can't even _speak._


	6. November.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 8/11/2016.
> 
>  
> 
> _Tennis shoes, don't even need to buy a new dress_  
>  _You ain't here, ain't nobody to impress_  
>  (Beyoncé)

They come over the next night, the sisters; Burr is just home from work and exhausted and ready for sleep but he hears Theo's gasp and Oh, _no_ and he's out and holding her in the next breath, and Elizabeth is crying with a hand over her mouth and Theo goes into her arms.

Angelica is grim and quiet.

 

They go together into the kitchen.

What the fuck, he says, what the _fuck,_ Ange -- 

Don't look at me like that. I had nothing to do with this. It's all Alex. Pure _fucking_ Alex, she says, and now she's crying too, without moving at all, arms still folded tight against her body, leaning stiff and tall and proud against the countertop. He found out -- about Jefferson, about Theodosia -- and he came arguing about morality and laws and grey hats -- you _know_ how he goes on -- and, she looks away, and Madison was there.

Burr shuts his eyes.

I did what I could, she says. Aaron, please don't hate me.

He shakes his head: he couldn't hate her; there's no room in his chest for hating anyone but himself. Did you text me?

What?

That text. Was that you?

She gives him a straight-eyed gaze. No one ever looked more perfectly straightfaced than Angelica. I don't know what you mean.

Why -- why hurt  _John?_

They thought Alex was driving, she says; her voice has been just loud enough to be audible this whole time and now it drops down lower, into something quieter than a whisper, so low he's not sure he hears her properly at all.

He swallows. Is John's death enough? Will it _be enough?_ Ange. Please tell me they're not going to hurt him. He'll be quiet now.

She is quiet, watching him.

Why not me? he says to her.

She touches his cheek. Theo needs you.

And Eliza needs Theo -- and Angelica needs Eliza -- therefore ...

Thank you, he says. Thank you for helping Theo.

Don't fuck it up, she says, rattling around in the cutlery drawer for nothing at all but the noise of the thing. I won't be able to do it again.

 

*

 

*

 

Alex cannot stop puking.

He thinks he should be able to stop. It has been a week -- two weeks -- now a month.

He can't stop. He can't keep down food. He can't sleep, not easily or well, not without breaking into a sweat mid-way through the night and laying still and stiff and silent, heart pounding, staring at the ceiling. Every time a car passes by and spreads light over the walls -- or worse, backfires -- he wakes again and fights down the sickness again, and runs to the bathroom and jerks up the seat and leans over the toilet-bowl, with its strange faint scent of bleach rising up from someone else's pipes. Someone else's apartment. Someone who takes care of their things. Someone who wouldn't get their best friend fucking shot.

 

He'd assumed -- at first -- that it was random. The hospital, the police -- he told them all it was random. He shook his head and shook his head: no, he didn't know who did it, he had no idea, John didn't have any enemies, who would want to _hurt_ him? Who would want to -- 

And when they went away and left him by the bedside, now alone with the machines softly beeping and John's still body on the bed, hands taped down so he wouldn't pull out the tube down his throat, now that it was only John's stillness and the noise of the machines and Alex's own breath rasping in his lungs, -- then, he understood a little better. And then he started to cry.

He went home eventually, where "home" meant John's apartment. He fed the stray cat and cleaned the fishtank and watered the plant on the windowsill even though it was a cactus and he'd probably kill it, too. He didn't know what else to do. He'd killed John -- he'd as good as killed him.

 _But John isn't dead_ , he had argued with himself. He wasn't _dead_. He was hurt so so bad but he wasn't dead. 

And Alex hadn't pulled the trigger on him.

But it was still his fault, as inexorably and permanently as if he'd lined up all the pieces himself, a horrible game of dominoes, and tipped over the first just to watch the others fall down.

He crawled fully-clothed in John's bed and buried his face in John's pillow and cried himself to sleep.

 

He was still there, still asleep, when the call came from the hospital: and then it began.


	7. December 31st.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 8/9 & 8/11/16
> 
>  
> 
>  _He's drunk, he tastes like candy, he's so beautiful_  
>   
>  (Hole)

Theo seems better. (No. He can't tell himself that.) But she is sleeping more, sleeping better, smiling more, talking more. She cleans up a little -- folding the old, ragged quilt they keep on the sofa, knocking together the sides of the pillows to plump them.

His heart turns over, but Don't wear yourself out, he says, thinking: _This is it this is it this is the very last chance_  -- when she's out, she is _out._

What then?

For now, for now -- they are happy.

Thoughtlessly, he texts Alex. (Beautiful Alex. Brittle Alex.) 

 

_Come over. Have supper. I asked E too._

  

They arrive together.

Eliza regards Burr evenly before she speaks, and he is again reminded of her sister. He wonders how much she knows, or doesn't want to know, or guesses.

 _You'll never meet anyone as trusting_ , Angelica had said _, or as kind_. But is it _kindness_  that makes her smile at him and say in a low voice: How is she?

Better, I think, now you're here.

The corners of her mouth drop down. Aaron. We need to talk about this.

No, he tells her. We don't. Come in, Lizzy.

Later, she says to him -- and then she's in Theo's arms.

 

Alex looks the same. No: he is thinner. Older. But the dark spaces beneath his eyes are the same, and the quick flash of intelligence is the same, and the way he grips Burr's arm and says I didn't want to come tonight -- the words tear into Burr with well-known claws, and it's comfort and torment, because Laurens is dead. The rain and brief snowfall have fallen on his grave for six weeks now; he is _dead_. Whatever is left of him -- if anything -- is standing here with Burr.

He wants to apologize for John Laurens. He wants to make it better.

Impossible.

So he waits for Alex to speak and watches him -- he's just standing there, looking strange and out-of-place in the dingy little kitchenette, like a Rembrandt portrait come to life -- all golden tones and soft draping shadows and smooth corners. The old feeling rises up to suffocate Burr -- like he can't breathe, yes, that's it, and I'm so sorry, he says: and wonders if it's true. He never wished Laurens dead and he refuses to accept any culpability for it -- even at 3am, when the daylight is furthest and his heart wakes him up with worries, he still sees Alex's hand turning the wheel.

But maybe untangling himself so completely is a mistake: or a lie.

Because Alex says I know. Before, and he tries again, Before John died, I thought I was sorry about Theodosia. I wasn't sorry. Not really. I didn't understand. I understand a little better now.

But Laurens had died quick, Burr thinks, it's a mercy and a torment. He'd never had a chance to suffer, to beg for relief, to tell Alex over and over how much he loved him -- or to hear it.

Alex says: I thought of going to that man -- that _Jefferson_.

Oh, no -- Alex --

For myself. A shipment for myself. Whatever is cheapest, and in quantity. But I'm not quite ready to swallow them all yet, you know? So.

The idea of Alex dying does something quick and brutal to Burr's chest. _Not yet._ _Not quite_.

So, says Burr. What now?

Now I go home, says Alex.

 

Burr follows him.

He's tugging on his coat, stuffing his hands down deep in the sleeves. It's too big for him, now. It looks like it belongs to someone else.

He needs a better one.

Burr bites his lip.

Anyway, Hamilton is saying, Anyway I've got to leave, if I stay longer I'll just fall asleep and you don't need to deal with my emaciated corpse on your floor --

Eliza's staying. (She is -- and she is already asleep. Burr checked on then a little while ago; she was curled up in the bed with Theo, arms around the thinner woman. Her head was against Theo's neck. Both of them were smiling.)

Alex shakes his head. Gots to go, Burr. -- and he grins, a sloppy expression on his restless face. If you're afraid someone will jump me, you could walk me home.

 _Afraid_ isn't exactly the right word, Burr says, straight-faced.

Alex laughs at him. I'll see you, um -- I'll see you, okay?

He was out the door and halfway down the hallway, the fluorescent light turning his hair a peculiar shade of brass, before Burr can unstick his feet from the floor and call out Alex -- wait -- wait --

And he grabs his scarf and a hat and stuffs his keys in a pocket and, jittering, locks the door, while goddamned Alexander Hamilton stands, smiling, and waits.

 

A cold night and perfectly clear; even in the city they see a broad spread of stars. The wonder of the firmament, says Alex. His head is down, he walks fast.

You're not even looking at it. (Why does he feel the need to jab and jar at Hamilton? He tries again.) You've got your head down.

Alex stops where he is and turns -- not up at the sky, but towards Burr. Where would you prefer I look?

Burr stammers. Look wherever you like. It's fine.

That's what I thought. But he is smiling.

He is impossible. Burr says Alex --

Oh, come on, Burr. And stop looking afraid to say the wrong thing. You look like someone's threatening to kick your puppy.

They walk along. The remnants of snow crunches.

I don't even have a puppy, says Burr.

Are you always so literal?

 

At Hamilton's door, they stop.

Alex fumbles with his keys. Thanks. Um. Do you want -- something? Coffee?

Burr shakes his head. I'm good. (He wants to come inside. He does not want to come inside.) He says again: I'm good.

You said that twice, Aaron.

I'm emphasizing.

You're nervous.

I'm going. Nice to see your place. Good to have you over. Good night. I'm leaving.

But still he stands.

He can't stop hating Alex. He can't stop  _not_ hating him. Those dark, lucid eyes -- his way of lifting up his chin to make a point, as he is doing now -- the tiny raise to his eyebrows when he's feeling smug -- it makes him sick, all of it makes him sick. The old frustration rises, the grappling-hooks-feeling of needing to  _win --_

\-- Burr moves forward, feels Alex's mouth against his mouth --

Alex changes the pressure and Burr gasps for air, he's shutting his eyes and raising his hands to cup that face, that beautiful face, holding it to his own -- he's finally touching that face he's wanted to touch for so long that he can't remember where it started, when he first found himself ignoring his own desire -- oh the  _feel_ of Alex, the smell of him, smoke and dust and old books and salt -- and his long-fingered sensitive hands are running over his shirt, pressing it against his body, lifting it up -- Burr slides his own hands inside the open panels of Alex's coat and feels that body start up in surprise, feels Alex move that tiny bit nearer, pressing them together even more --

and now Alex is moving away and Burr makes a noise of complaint and that tongue (that _tongue_ ) is licking the corner of Burr's mouth and he gasps and jerks backwards automatically and moves forward again, searching out for more, arching for it, and

 

I want to kiss you again, says Alex. I want to touch you.

Please, says Burr. He's actually suffocating, there's a pressure in his chest like drowning, this is more than just lust, he doesn't even know what he means anymore: Please go away? Please touch me. Please. Please do anything, do something different, change anything at all to solve this horrible ache all over.

Alex, he says. _Please_.

And Alex is kissing him more and more and his hand moves down to the crest of Burr's trousers and it curls around, carefully, careful -- and Burr doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know  _at al_ except that he finds it utterly impossible to think clearly.

Come with me, says Alex. Come inside. Please?

and

Yes -- 

 

*

 

*

 

Alex is happy.

He'd thought he wouldn't be happy again. Not ever. Even the thought  _I am so happy oh god_ brought with it its own stain of blood, the sound of shattering glass and the simultaneous noise of a bullet entering flesh and the noise of John as he thrashed backwards, choking, dying, and his own voice screaming and then the car tires burning on asphalt, a thousand small things that are tied up, now, with Aaron's skin under his skin and that body under his hands and the thought that repeats over and over in narrowing spirals, like a record under the needle, tighter and tighter spirals as it reaches the end: _I am so happy._

He bites down lightly and feels the reaction in his lover and in himself. God, _god._ He doesn't care Aaron is married; he doesn't care, almost, for just now, that John is dead. (What use caring? What use self-denial?)

_Aaron._

He takes him down slowly, he knows how to do that, he can guess at what Burr would like -- and it works -- well enough to prove Burr is no more or less human than anyone else. He likes sensation, he likes heat, he likes the noise and moisture of Alex against him, sweating in the warmth, making noises and heat of his own.

And Alex --

Alex works fast and then he goes slow. He takes off Burr's clothes like he'd done this a thousand times, like there wasn't anything to marvel at; he lets Burr reach for him and unbutton him with a tremulous, horrible leisure that (Alex reminded himself) is only evidence of confusion and probably some inexperience or uncertainty; it absolutely (he thought) does not mean anything about how this affects  _Burr._

Probably it doesn't affect him at all.

Probably he still hates Alex.

_Probably._

But when they are finished and Alex rising up and kissing Aaron, kissing him over and over, trying to make him taste himself, to share in this knowledge -- and Burr has his eyes shut and he is loose-mouthed and warm, so warm, so fucking _hot_ to the touch that Alex can't stop himself from gratitude and he can't believe it anymore. But he isn't stupid enough to say anything or do anything about it; he just lies there on his side, watching the emotions and thoughts cross that beautiful face, too quick to capture and identify with any certainty, except the ones that repeated the most: pleasure and desire and pain.

Not hatred. No hatred. No matter what Aaron thinks of himself. No matter what he says, he doesn't hate Alex.

Alex smiles a little -- and wishes, with a terrible violence and ache, that he could tell John.


	8. New Year's day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I took a plane to Paris to remind me what I'd lost_  
>  _And I spent the day in a sidewalk cafe, writing ..._  
>  _I took myself to the cinema and mostly closed my eyes._  
>  (Nerissa Nields)

Theo? He knocks softly, turns the handle of the door, and sees what he expects to see: Theo curled on her side, the television flickering bluely in the blind-darkened room, sound down. He kneels next to her and pulls up the blanket over her shoulders. She always gets cold, sleeping like this.

Aaron. You're late.

It was a long night.

She sits up slowly. Her eyes are vacant. She's taken something, then. You're real late. It's almost noon.

I know. Do you want me to take you into the bed?

Instead of answering, she extends her arms and lets him pick her up. She barely weighs anything. Bed is much nicer, she says. Good Aaron. Kind Aaron. Soft boy. She isn't really awake.

Thanks, T. He sits on the edge of the bed and unlaces his shoes, loosens his trousers, crawls in with her.

You smell funny. Were you with Alexander?

He freezes. Theo, we can talk about this later. I mean, can we?

Aaron?

... Yeah. He reaches out, strokes her hair back behind her ear, feels the guilt press down.

I've told you before -- what you do with your body is your own decision.

But --

There's nothing more to say. I love you.

He winces.

I love you she says again, in a different voice.

I want to tell you, he says.

Theodosia shakes her head. No, you want to _confess_. That's different. I'm not your priest, and if you need to be absolved, that's your own ... your own problem to work out, between you and God ... But you can tell me, if you want? I'm interested. She's smiling a little.

I love you, he says, helpless.

I know that. She kicks him, lightly, says: So tell me about this Alex.

Oh it is hard, hard, to separate guilt from his narrative! He tries not to cringe. Says Where should I start? 

A trace of her old wicked smile. Where did you start on him?

In the middle, and worked my way out. He's laughing now. Okay, so the first thing you need to know is that the man _cannot stop talking_  --

 

 

*

 

*

 

Alexander gets up slowly and dresses himself slowly and carries his dirty clothes-basket down four floors to the basement, stuffs the washing machine and runs it and stands a long moment watching the clothes churn in the front window, circular, like a porthole.

He takes himself out for coffee and a croissant; he turns the pages of a newspaper someone else had bought and left on the table, without reading them.

When his hands start shaking he drops the rest of his change into the tip-jar and walked home along the streets, weaving a little on his feet around the confetti and broken balloons and used condoms and cigarette butts and coffee-cups and all the other litter left over from the celebration. 

He feels like he is crying and he is not crying.

Aaron -- John --

Will anyone want him who isn't irrevocably broken? Won't he ever fall in love with someone who can accept him? Laurens had kept him at arm's length, insisting they date other people -- and Alex was _fine_ with open relationships, he was  _fine_ with polyamory, he wasn't jealous or clingy, but he needed some compensation for the nights alone.

And John Laurens -- his best friend, the one who'd known him better than everyone else -- he'd said that Alex wasn't good for him.

I'm not good _enough_ for you said Alex, desperate for reassurance.

You're good enough. You are my dearest ... my very best friend. But you know as well as I do that if we tried to be together, we'd tear each other apart. You'd want to tie me down, Alex, and I would be angry with your writing for keeping you up half the night --

I would never try to tie you down! (Hotly.)

Really? You wouldn't mind me dancing with other men? Their hips against me? Come on, you're jealous _now_ and it's all hypothetical. No. Laurens reached out, brushed hair back behind Alex's ear, sighed. Did you lose your hair tie again? Here. And he pulled one from his own wrist -- where he kept it for occasions like this.

 

I love you, he says. His chin is wobbling; he waits for the tears to come, waits at the corner for the light to flick over to WALK -- waits and waits and waits.

I love you, says John Laurens in his ear. A warmth and a presence. He is real -- he _has been_ real -- and if Alex turns fast enough he can capture him again, maybe.

Alex stares right ahead.

He will not, like Orpheus, lose what he most wants in trying to regain it.

Stay here, he says aloud: and the light clicks over, and the crowd moves with Alex inside it, and John is surely just a step away.


	9. January.

Of course the pills run out; Burr knows they will. He knew it.

Knowing it, he disbelieves it. He expects nevertheless a miracle -- some patient grace, some luck he's never had to begin with, like it was all holding back and waiting for now.

No.

 

Aaron, she says.

It comes dimly to him, through dreams.

Aaron. She is crying. He surges awake through the exhaustion clinging to his body, weighing it down like sludge.

She is sitting up. Could you please get me -- I don't know what -- something? Biting her lip, shivering.

He sits up too but there isn't anywhere to go; she knows this answer before he speaks it. There isn't anything. I'm sorry, he says, as if that can help. He has nothing, nothing.

She doesn't react at all, it's like the words didn't reach her.

Burr starts shaking. Theo? Please don't. Please. And he is crying now too; they cry together.

 

He can't bear this.

 

Not every night nor every other night but often enough, he goes to see Alex.

Safety. Silence.

They won't talk about Theodosia, they won't talk about anything, they'll just fuck, god he _needs_ that, he needs the silent place in his head, the stop place --

Burr keeps his phone in his pocket now and when it vibrates he shuts his eyes like it's a human touch and as soon as he can he goes to check it in some private area -- the restroom, a janitor's closet, standing in the little kitchenette while Theo watches a shopping channel in the other room, half-dozing --

 

_tonight?_

And

 _yes._ he replies.

 

Theo is asleep. Burr leaves a note, leaves water, leaves the house. Takes the last bus across town, riding with junkies on the nod and a hard-eyed young woman, carrying an infant. He doesn't make eye contact. Pulls for his stop, walks the rest of the way.

Alex is waiting for him.

They barely make it inside the door before they're on each other, hard and pressing against the wall, while Burr gasps into his hair (god,  _god)_ and then they're into each other again, restless and hungry and searching until they roll apart, breathing hard.

Burr rubs a hand over his eyes.

Alex is still breathless. Where did you learn to do that?

You assume I had no experience before you? Why, Alexander.

Why, Aaron! says Alex, and giggles.

I bet, says Burr, sleepy and sated, I bet you didn't imagine this back in school. 

I didn't have that good of an imagination back then. I thought about -- you know. Kissing. Hands. Um. That sort of thing. And you were just a skinny little slip of a thing.

Oh, I remember. Burr was dry. Alex, you didn't have a crush on me. Not really. Did you?

Of course I did. Why else would I follow you around and join all the clubs you joined and --

Because you were a brat.

A brat with a raging hard-on for our Little Burr.

If you ever call me that again, I will hurt you. Did you think I'd be impressed by you winning all my awards?"

But Alex is giggling again. Weren't you?

Pissed off, rather. But if we're bringing up the past, what about you? Crying behind the bleachers --

Oh my god, you are not going to bring that up. You are not. His giggles turn into shrieks as Burr sicks a hard finger into his waist.

Still ticklish, Hamilton?

Still an asshole, Burr.

And the giggles and pokes turn into something else, again, and _we are so different_  Burr thinks; he's halfway lost already. He bites. 

And Alex looks hard and empty and hurting and _young_ and Burr is so unbearably old, he wants to take back what he said, wants to take back everything he's ever said or done, everything was a mistake -- 

as Alex moans, clutches, openly seeks. He is brought to pieces slowly (every time Burr swears to himself it won't happen again and he does not want to think about what that means so he puts it away in the box marked ALEXANDER and never, never unlocks it except to add another puzzle-piece) -- but Alex -- Alex is already fallen apart.

Burr comes down off his high and really registers this.

It's not the loose-limbed madness of sex, this time. It's something else. He's not taken apart but fallen and he's kissing Burr with an indecent frankness and greed, like he's trying to reach _through_ him to find something else -- 

 _Someone_ else.

Alex, Burr says, cautious now. Hey. Presses that form away and it clings to him. Alex? Hey. Speak to me. Tell me you know who I am.

I haven't forgotten you.

That is not, precisely, a useful answer.

Burr says: Laurens?

And Alex draws still. Don't say that name.

So Burr goes back to petting his lover and letting himself be used (as he is so obviously being used) until he can't take it; he says Is this what you like? and tries something they've never done before -- something Alex has never let him do.

The body beneath him reacts. It shivers. Alex clutches at him and makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds, suspiciously, like  _John_.

 _It's all right,_ Burr wants to say, does not say. Call me anything. It doesn't matter. He understands -- far better than he wants to -- the slow madness of grief, the sheer intactile madness of longing and loss.

And, after all: it is still his body that Alex reaches for. He didn't go to the clubs.

Is this what you need?

Or this?

and finally: Here, says Alex, reaching out, demonstrating with his own hand in the air. Add a curve. Not too harsh. Just -- ah.

He gasps.

Burr kisses him.

I love you, says Alex; probably he does not mean to say it aloud.

 

Burr has to go home, eventually. 

 

Theo is awake. She is always awake. So Burr stays awake; he tosses a scarf over the light to dim it and let her eyes rest and reads to her in a hoarse voice while she turns and twisted and tries to find a comfortable position. (She liked his calm voice; she liked how the inflection crept in and out of it, she'd said.)

He reads her TS Elliot, "Portrait of A Lady," not thinking when he began how the poem concludes:

 _Well! And what if she should die some afternoon_  
_Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose_  
_... And should I have the right to smile?_

She hasn't made a noise or a movement in some time. He bends over her, trying to judge if he ought to go on, and Theo says without opening her eyes: If I ask your help, will you help me?

Hasn't he proven that enough? He brushes a stray limp piece of hair from her face. I will do what you wanted me to do. Don't speak, if you don't feel well enough.

It's gone away a little, for the moment.

He says: I was thinking, maybe, of my work at the hospital. All those painkillers. But if I end up in jail, it would make things even worse for you.

I'd like to die at home, she says.

Maybe there's something we overlooked. Other doctors. Hospitals. Hospices. I don't know.

She takes his hand. It's quiet here, uptown. It's so noisy in those places. I'd like to die where it's quiet, Aaron.

He fights the urge to scream at her. He says: Tell me what you want me to do.

So she tells him. She holds him, while he cries.

 

*

 

*

 

Wake in the middle of the night and someone's crying. _John_ he thinks vaguely, stretches out his hand, feels the shoulder, runs up to the cropped hair -- 

Aaron? Aaron. Please, please don't ... He wraps his arms around his lover, buries his face in his skin. Aaron.

Leave me be.

Alex shuts his eyes. Kisses the crook of the smooth neck. Says: Please stop crying.

No response, so Alex shuts up but doesn't move, doesn't move, stays curled around Burr like -- like a burr. 

_Leave me be._

An impossible demand. He's never been able to let go of anything.


	10. Chapter 10

Aaron, will you do this?

I need you to promise you'll do this for me.

Aaron. My dear boy. You need to speak.

She takes his hand and presses it -- probably with as much strength as she can manage -- but her grip barely dents his skin.

And she is asking for a favor.

Burr nods at her. His mouth is too try to speak aloud -- all the water in his body seems to be caught up at his eyes -- still he can nod and he does, quick uneven movements like a marionette jerking about on a string.

Theo tugs at his sleeve until he bends over her and listens for a whisper: she pulls him down closer and closer until she can catch the sides of his face in her hands and gently his mouth onto hers.

They've only kissed a handful of times before -- married at the courthouse, that was once, for the appearance of the thing; and before that, when they were discussing the ins and outs of what their marriage might be. _Are you sure about the sex_ , he'd said, and she'd said _It's never even been a question for me_  and she'd given him an expressive, impressive roll of her eyes:  _But you can kiss me if you want to make sure._  

So he had. And 

 _You're right,_ he said. _You really_ are _asexual._  

 _Imagine that,_ she'd said, dry.

But physical affection is bound up with emotion for Burr, and Theo knows that. So this is a gift. 

He holds very still.

Theo draws away; she rests her forehead against his.

Thank you, she says.

He chokes.

Oh my poor dear boy, she says. I'm so sorry.

I love you, he says. Best of wives.

You, says Theo, tired again now; she snuggles against him while he draws his arm tight, her chin resting on his shoulder. You, Aaron. You, you, you.

 

When she goes to sleep, Burr does what she asked him to do.

 

*

 

Alex has a normal day.


	11. Chapter 11

A knock on the door -- once, twice -- again, after a pause --

Burr doesn't bother to get up until it had gone on for several minutes, intermittently, and seems ready to go on all night. He stands up from the couch -- god, when did his knees start to ache? When did he started getting old?

Theo, he thinks. _Theo._ And swallows hard.

The knocker is of course Alex.

Burr stares blankly. Why are you here?

Breakfast, says Alex, and lifts up a bag.

It's night.

Nearly midnight, Hamilton agrees. Move over. And pushes his way inside.

Burr followed. Hamilton, I don't -- this isn't the time --

I'm perfectly aware of what's going on in your life, Aaron Burr, and that is exactly why I'm here. He is opening up the bag, bringing out muffins and butter. Burr stared. What the fuck?

You shouldn't be alone. Do you have milk? This is going to go down hard without milk. Or coffee.

Tea. We have -- I have tea -- but I'd rather be alone. If you don't mind.

That's why you shouldn't be. He goes into the kitchenette (without asking permission) and starts to fill a pot with water. Burr hears the noise of the gas lighting, the clatter of a heavy pot on the burner, and the sickly-sweet smell drifts out.

He sinks back down on the couch, boneless.

A moment later Alex comes out and sits. Cigarette?

Burr takes one and lights it.

Jesus, I meant for you to go outside or something.

It doesn't matter now. Why are you here?

I told you.

If you're expecting me to spill my innermost secrets --

Hamilton shakes his head. I'm not _expecting_ anything of you. I'm not even expecting you to speak. Fuck, I didn't even think you'd let me inside. But maybe you need someone here.

Not you, says Burr.

Harsh. 

It's true.

Do you have any better options? His tone is quiet; he's lit a cigarette of his own and is holding it between thumb and forefinger, looking down on it, watching the ash move up, as if he isn't quite sure what to do with it. If you can name anyone else -- if anyone else in your entire life is available to sit with you tonight, I'll go.

His mouth is dry; it tastes like ashes. But Theo isn't burned yet. Not yet. Eliza, he says, through the dust.

She's not here, Burr. If you called her, would she come?

Burr looks away from the sympathy and the resolution in those eyes. He grinds his cigarette into the tabletop, half-finished. If she thought ...

If she thought you'd have her, she'd be here. I know. She's a good one. But you wouldn't have her around.

Fuck you, says Burr.

You don't have anyone else. How does that feel?

You tell me. And he is standing now, shaking with fury. How did it feel to lose John Laurens? How did it feel, knowing you'd never get that back -- never --

Hamilton smiles at him -- at his cruelty -- and it is beautiful; it is like sunrise. It hurts something in his chest, something tied up with Theodosia's face and her laugh and with guilt, guilt, no matter what she said; and some of it is just a response to Hamilton and the force of his personality and the bonds that draw them together, tighter and tighter, until something must snap apart and break.

He looks away.

Alex says: Are you jealous, Burr?

You don't know anything about me, says Burr, like it's still true, like it's ever been true in the first place. He feels the strings of that old connection tighten. That didn't mean anything to me. That -- those nights -- with you.

I know that. Do you think I'm stupid? I'm not stupid.

Burr sits back down and puts his head in his hands. How the fuck did they get here? I know you're not stupid.

You loved Laurens, he wants to say. I loved Theodosia.

He wants to say: This is ridiculous.

He wants to say: I need a drink. Let's get a drink.

Alex stands.

Burr says: What are you doing?

Hamilton looks at him strangely. The water's boiling away.

It is only then Burr hears the pot rattle.

*

*

Aaron follows him into the kitchenette and Alex tries to hide the shaking in his hands while he finds mugs, finds teabags, finds a rag to wrap around the handle of the pot so he can pour out the water. He gives one over. Here.

And then it is his turn to ignore another man's trembling.

They go out on the roof, then, opening a window in the hallway and climbing out. From here a few night-breezes come off the water; they trail between the buildings. The scent of nighttime, the scent of algae, mixing with the dust of a million pigeons, dead and living.

Alex thinks he can smell the stars.

Burr sips his tea for a while and doesn't talk. But he never talks. Not really. Alex used to think he could talk enough for both of them; he used to think he could stretch that mouth round and voluble. It hadn't worked.

With Theodosia dead it seems even more unlikely.

He tries to imagine losing the only person he loved -- the only person to whom he ever really spoke -- and fails. He loved John Laurens fiercely, passionately; John was a miracle in so many ways -- even his memory makes Alex warm, now the first flood of bitter regret had faded -- but John had never been the only person in his life. He had loved, he _had been_ loved.

John was the best but he was never the only one.

Meanwhile: Aaron sits.

I loved John, says Alex into that listening silence. And he's dead. He wishes he still had his cigarettes, but they were forgotten on the coffee table. Smoking would give him something to do with his hands, and a pleasing appearance of nonchalance. You loved Theodosia.

He does not add the obvious: she is dead, too.

I killed her, says Burr.

Alex obviously hasn't heard him right.

I held a pillow over her face until she stopped breathing, says Burr. He is looking out and out and out, towards the west, where the light pollution makes it look like sunset never really dims away. She asked me to do it.

I loved her. So.

Unbelievably, he shrugs. He picks up his mug and the water sloshes over his hand and he slams it down against the roof with a swear and the china shatters; he holds on to the handle, useless now, and opens his fingers, laughing a little.

So, he says. Guess I need another mug.

 _Aaron,_ Alex tries to say.

I told her about that first night, he says; his eyes are very bright in the semi-darkness; they seem to take up all his face. She asked. She wanted to know. She s-smelled you, _smelled_ your body on me. Your mouth. I told her what we'd done. What happened. What I wanted to do. What I wanted, he says, all the things I wanted. And she laughed. She said -- she said.

He wraps his arms around himself; they stretched too far around. Has he always been so thin? Or was Alex noticing this for the first time -- the way he'd only seen his eyes now, tonight, -- the way he'd only just now heard his voice go rough with emotion --

She was asexual, Alex. Did I tell you? We'd never -- especially not when she got sick. And then sicker. She got so sick.

He rubs at his face.

She said her body was her own, she said that was all she could claim, and even that was just a loan. She said my body was my own, too. She said -- 

 _She said she said she said_ , thinks Alex; does Aaron have no thoughts of his own? But he was going on. and 

Aaron, says Alex: he watches Burr's face twist up; he leans in and kisses that face, says: Let me make you feel better.

Alex, says Burr. I -- I can't -- I don't think -- I don't -- I don't want you to think that I -- 

If you're asking if I love you, says Alex, steadying his voice, and he praises the sun and the clearing sky as he watches a muscle jerk in that cheek -- "the answer is no.

I wasn't asking, says Burr, to the air vents.

 _Liar, liar._ God help anyone who really loves you; I think you'd eat them alive. You'd bite them in the jugular and drag them off to your lair. Drag their intestines through the dirt.

God, what he wouldn't do for Burr to bite his neck and ...

Thank god I don't love you. Thank god. You'd be horrible. He has his head down now, fumbling with the notches of Burr's belt, blaming the half-light for the clumsiness of his hands.

I would not. I am not.

You don't know what you do to people.  _What you do to me._

Burr makes a face. Good thing you don't love me, then.

Good thing, says Alex, aching. And then he has his hands on that smooth skin and he bends down to taste it and Burr let out a soft huff of air and pulls him up to kiss him and Alex can't tell, anymore, whose body was whose, or what desire he was filling. Did he want John? Burr?

An end to the white-noise of his own pain humming just beneath his skin, like the sound of a seashell held against his ear, something he couldn't stop, reflecting back his own blood-beat endlessly, endlessly.

Does Burr feel that too? He married Theodosia for love and friendship and generosity and he'd never showed anything but the barest edges of those traits to Alex -- but they had something else together.

 

But Aaron is staring at him again.

Alex turns away from those searching eyes and says, unnecessarily: It's morning.

Yeah.

You survived.

Burr snorts -- an unlikely noise. Thanks.

That snort was sort of ... human. It was almost friendly. So a grateful Alex bumps shoulders. C'mon. Let's get breakfast.

Stale muffins? Exciting.

Fuck that. We'll get diner breakfast. My treat.


	12. Chapter 12

Are you awake?

and Burr jerks up from a nightmare with a sickening jolt; gratitude floods him and he keeps his eyes tight-shut. He dreamt Theodosia was alive -- and not as she was when she was alive and healthy, nor as she was when she was dying and dying and dying, dragged into thinness and a sort of grim patience -- she was quick and vital and furious, castigating him for not doing more, beating on him with her hands and her words, screaming epithets. _You worthless, you coward._  

And he cowered. 

But it was a dream, thank god, thank _god._ Theo is dead and she is freed and nothing he does or didn't do -- none of his cowardice or indecision -- can harm her anymore. She is free.

And there is Alex, staring at him with those huge dark eyes. 

He's spent the night with Alex. (Again.)

He can't help moaning a little. How early is it? Are the birds even awake yet? There is no goddamn reason to ever see this time of day. Tell me you're not one of those awful morning people, he says, into the pillow.

Alex actually laughs, the bastard. Sorry. I wanted to tell you something, that's all. Are you awake?

How can he _not_ be awake? He shifts about on the pillow, looking at his friend. Boyfriend. Lover. Fuck fuck  _f_ _uck._ He loves him -- without meaning to do it, without knowing he did until he was in the middle of it -- and now it is far too late to do anything about but move forward.

He shuts his eyes before Alex can see any of this.

Says: What do you want?

Nothing, says Alex, soft.

 

*

 

Burr? He pokes him. Are you awake?

A slight moan, muffled by the pillow, and a growl: Tell me you're not one of those awful  _morning people._

Wake up, Aaron.

I'm really not in the mood.

Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm not trying to _do_ that. I just wanted to touch you. Alex bites his lip and tries again. I just wanted to tell you something ... Tell me you're awake.

I can hardly go back to sleep with you rattling in my ear, says Burr, but he lifts his head a little, smiles a little -- a very little -- and Alex can't breathe looking at him -- the intimacy of sleeping together, the intimacy of his head on Alex's pillow.

His chest expands. Constricts. 

It hurts.

He thinks: I love you. I love you. 

_Fuck._

Acknowledging it doesn't relieve the pressure in his chest; it only takes on a new shape, a new wholeness. It becomes a very little easier to carry.

Nothing, he says. Nevermind. I'm going back to sleep.

Does that mean you'll stop talking? says Burr, with his eyes shut -- and Alex wants to kiss him, to wake him all the way, to tell him everything, to talk and talk until even Aaron Burr can't ignore him anymore -- but his breathing is even and slow, and god knows he's probably faking it to get out of conversation, it wouldn't be the first time -- but still Alex lays motionless, quiet, watching the rise and fall of Burr's chest, the pulse beating warm and steady and perfectly real under his skin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what a terrible human being i am over at tumblr  
> @littledeconstruction


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